2006-01-04

On New Years Eve 2004/2005 I went to M_____'s party, and had what could best be described as a surreal time. Parts of it seemed like a fairy tale, others like I was in The Langoliers or Neco z Alenky or something: just nothing seemed quite normal. She and I had enjoyed our first-ever makeout session after what felt like the world's longest courtship, and then suddenly I was a leper. The party ended on a sour note that would have appeared to be my fault, but really wasn't. At this point I'd rather not say, but suffice it to be told that my phone calls weren't returned with a single unpleasant exception.

She had shown up at my work though, where she herself used to be employed. She ended up being known in the third person's variety of the perpendicular pronoun: in particular: "she" or "her". In that time she's continued the longstanding trend of not communicating anything particularly effectively with me. Despite that, I felt on New Years Even 2005/2006 it was time that I played a little hardball and called back with a somewhat aggressive stance (less so than planned: I deviated from my script at runtime).

The return call came Tuesday evening. I let the voicemail pick it up, and didn't listen myself until a bad work meeting left me in a foul mood and I decided even M_____ couldn't make it any worse. The message itself was vaguely upbeat, even though our relationship before was degraded to "hanging out" [her nipple was hanging out, if that counts; ed] and it seems that she was with me behind the back of a guy that I heretofore knew nothing of (unless it was one of her previous suitors whom I'd never met) but still nothing that impacted the outright hostility to which I was met with throughout the 2005 Year of Silence.

Later on Tuesday evening when replaying the message to one of my few co-workers who remembers her, another coworker responsible for my bad meeting tried to talk to me about it, which I handled with my typical aplomb: I ignored her. This led to her asking why I "hate chicks" to which I did not feel like giving the obvious response (which would likely lead to another unpleasant meeting) referring instead to the voicemail as "Exhibit A".

Another possible answer I considered, which was rejected for being too honest and therefore too confrontational, is that if women don't understand what makes men hate them then they should accompany us to the bar. It will all become clear then. I'll likely have a more extended rant on this subject: probably after our next trip to the bar.

Suffice it to say, I'm currently dealing with post-M_______ trauma. This might keep me off the blogging for a couple of days.